A Hawk Among Doves
by DrWhohouselock221b
Summary: Sherlock Holmes has a new case, but is this going to be a normal case? Or is something going to go wrong? There's always something going on in that mind of his and he's going to need to be faster than ever with this one. Sherlock!whump, Sherlock/John Friendship, NO slash.
1. On The Run

Chapter 1

On The Run

 **Okay, so this story was previously on my Wattpad account, and I wanted to switch it over to here, because this is my favorite site, haha. Just another Sherlock fanfiction that I just wrote the next chapter to, so I hope you enjoy, and please review!**

John was tired. He had been at the Clinic since 9 this morning, and the only welcoming thing that had happened that day was the warm waft of air that pressed on him as he unlocked the door to his flat, at 221B Baker Street. He sluggishly picked up his bag containing his modalities from the damp ground and made his way inside, up the stairs and to the door to the flat. The first thing that he noticed when he walked in was that the couch was empty. An unpleasant burning smell and smoke coming from the kitchen greeted his eyes.

"Sherlock?" John speedily walked to the kitchen, trying to find the source of the smoke.

He found Sherlock standing in the kitchen with experiments flung across the kitchen table and inside cabinets and in the sink. One of which was on fire, and was fuming smoke throughout the flat.

"Sherlock?! What the _hell_ are you doing?!" Concern was strung across his voice.

Sherlock looked up from his observation of the burning material and the first thing he said was

"Oh Hello John!" John dropped his bag and made his way around the table to where the (cotton?) material was burning. He waved his hand trying to blow the smoke away a little so he could see better.

"Sherlock is this really necessary? It's 11 o'clock!" He stepped back looking to find a cup of water to pour over it, not really focusing on the fact that Sherlock would likely be pissed if he poured it over the experiment.

"Yes, of course. It's always necessary John. Now don't go pouring anything over my precious experiment, this is important." He turned his back to the small metal cup holding the burning cloth and grabbed the table behind him as if trying to protect it from the fires enemy.

"Well could you at least clear out the cabinets so I could make some tea please?" He said, knowing he wasn't getting to the small fire no matter what. The flame was dimming anyways, so there was no need for the water.

Sherlock thought a few seconds before answering Johns question, "Fine." he said reluctantly.

He began clearing things up, while John left the room to go freshen up a bit and finish some reports. When he returned he was surprised to find the kitchen relatively clean, with many of the experiments relocated to a large portion of the kitchen table which had previously been covered with old case files and other old and finished experiments. John began making the tea when he realized after about 10 minutes of Sherlock's noise, it had stopped abruptly. Just then he heard a knock on the door and rapid footsteps. Then everything was silent. He walked to the Living room to find the flat door open, and down the stairs, he could see that the front door was open as well. A confused John wondered why Sherlock would have left in such a hurry. _A case, probably._ He thought to himself. Making sure to check the other rooms for him before he left, he made his way down the steps and to the street where he could only see the flit of Sherlock's coat around the corner and footsteps echoed across the buildings. He broke into a run wanting to catch up to Sherlock before he lost him.

As he rounded the corner he made note of another figure, several yards in front of Sherlock that was running at a full sprint. _Of course. I should've known it was a case..._ he thought to himself. When he finally reached Sherlock he was stopped at the edge of a street.

John looked around trying to find the street name on a building only to find that it wasn't, in fact a street, but an ally. In which John and Sherlock were standing at the opening side and the figure was facing the wall.

"You're trapped now, might as well give up." Sherlock said to the figure in between his breathy huffs of breath.

They turned and in a low gruff voice said "I can never be trapped Mr. Holmes. That's the art of a magician!"

There was a loud snap, and a large cloud of smoke rolled over the two men, leaving them without sight and irritated throats, they were vulnerable.

"John? John. Where are you?" there were some more coughs then Johns voice

"Here, Sherlock move to your right a bit and reach behind you with your hand." Not knowing any other way to find each other, Sherlock obeyed, soon finding Johns hand through the smoke. He had made the deduction that the smoke would have spread to far back through the street for them to leave it behind and still expect to find the "magician." So they had to move close to the wall and walk alongside it until they met the end, where the street turned into a dead end.

"Sherlock I think I see him." John squinted into the smoke seeing the shadow of a person. John broke into a run, intent on getting this over with. He tackled him, only to find out it was a dummy. _Someone knew. Someone knew I was going to tackle whoever was in the smoke._ How could anyone have known that he was going to tackle them? That's absurd. There's no other reason they would have provided a dummy! The smoke had thinned now, only to a light fog and it was easier to see. They had lost him, of course they had. Sherlock walked up to John with disappointment on his face.

"Dammit! We've lost him. I'll have to finish this up in the morning, with the help of Lestrade." He began walking in the direction of their flat. John was frozen, this was unusual. Sherlock would never just _give up_ on a chase. Especially if he was this close to catching the murderer he wouldn't stop until they were in handcuffs! Nonetheless John followed, he had forgotten about his exhaustion, and walking towards the flat gave him time to realize just how tired he was. Sherlock was walking faster and more brisk than he was, it was apparent John had much less energy than him.

When they had made there way back inside the flat John had continued to make tea, and Sherlock had snuck into his room, making very little noise which made John suspicious. Then there was a loud crash as the sound of glass breaking filled the flat. Wondering what Sherlock had broken now, John entered the room cautiously.

He knocked on the half open door "Sherlock, can I come in?" There was a small groan of pain coming from behind the slightly cracked door. Opening the door slowly, he saw Sherlock's window was broken and there was a bloody knife laying on the floor. Footprints of the intruders shoes smearing in blood led out the window, staining the white window sill with, what could only be Sherlock's blood.

John found Sherlock leaning against the wall and holding his side. Beads of sweat had dripped down his face and drenched his collar. There was blood covering his hand and all over his clothes. His eyes were closed and Johns initial reactions were shock and concern

"Sherlock! Are you alright?!" The amount of concern and worry was evident in Johns voice. Sherlock panted, his ability to breath becoming much more labored.

"S-Stabbed. Suspect... went out th' window. Go...-catch 'im" His legs began to give out and John was there in an instant to catch him. He lay him softly on the wooden floor and immediately reached for his phone.

"I'm calling Mycroft, okay?" Sherlock's eyes were beginning to close, while on the phone he tapped Sherlock's face a bit.

"Sherlock! Sherlock I need you to stay awake for me alright? Come on now stay awake." He made a bandage out of a towel that had been thrown carelessly on the floor. _Thank god for your messy habits Sherlock._ He dialed Mycroft's number on his phone.

When he picked up he immediately started talking "Mycroft? I need you to come to Baker Street, It's Sherlock. He's been stabbed." There were a few faint orders being carried out in the background in which John could here Mycrofts authoritative voice ordering a car to be readied and dispatched to 221B.

"I'll be right there John, I have a car already on it's way it shouldn't take more than 5 minutes." Mycroft had a light string of concern in his voice for his little brother, there was a pause and then "How is he?" John took a moment to evaluate the situation, "He's going to be fine, Mycroft. Just get that car here as soon as possible." There was a moment of understanding then Mycroft hung up.

John knelt down beside Sherlock "Sherlock?" He said.

"Hm?" His eyes cracked open a little bit looking at John, his face was much paler than usual and his breathing shallow and labored.

"Mycroft's on his way, are you doing okay?" _Stupid. Stupid question, of course hes not doing okay look at him!_ In a faint whisper Sherlock answered.

"Ye'. But 'm cold Jawn." he said, as he shivered a bit, sending jolts of pain through his weak body, Sherlock couldn't suppress a groan of pain.

"Yeah, alright, here." he took off his black jacket and laid it across Sherlock chest. He sat down on the ground and pulled Sherlock's head into his lap, trying to keep him comfortable while they waited.


	2. Jibber Jabber

Chapter 2

Jibber Jabber

Mycroft had arrived right behind his other car, the EMTs rushing into the flat as fast as possible. John was leaning against the wall, with Sherlock's head in his lap. Both of their eyes were shut, the only thing that let Mycroft know they were both still alive was the slow rise and fall of both of their chests.

John had immediately opened his eyes at the sound of the footsteps making their way up in the stairs and into the bedroom. One of the younger doctors had moved Sherlock out of John's lap and onto the floor. He was being moved onto the backboard, a large strap holding a cotton bandage to his side. An oxygen mask was placed over his face, and they began moving him downstairs to take to hospital.

"He's going to be fine, John. Trust me." Was all Mycroft could say, trying to expel Johns worry from his face. 5 minutes later they were unloading him at the drop off bank of the hospital.

"I'm sorry sir, we need to take him into surgery to repair the damage. We're going to have to ask you to stay out here." A young female nurse said to John. Making him sit in the waiting room of the E.R. Hours went by and no one came out to tell them anything. Mycroft had ordered a cup of tea be brought to John after they had sat down in the comfortable green chairs that littered the room. Finally the same female doctor came out, holding a clipboard. She walked over slowly to them,

"Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes?" she asked, they both nodded, standing up.

"He's just come out of surgery, the knife nicked a few organs, but nothing too serious for our surgeons to fix. The knicks caused internal bleeding into his abdomen, but it was drained upon arrival. He's being moved to room 362, and will be accepting visitors now, if you would like to see him." With that she left, and they both made their way to the elevator. He was hooked up to a ventilator, and a blood bag was transfusing blood into his veins.

 _You're lucky Sherlock... Dammit you're lucky._ Was the only thing John heard go through his head. The doctor had told them he wasn't going to be waking up soon, so he took a seat on the only chair in the room and waited.

6 hours and 4 cups of tea later the sound of Sherlock's monitors beeping woke John up. He got up to see Sherlock's hand on his side and a faint expression of pain on his face.

"You're awake! Do I need to turn up the morphine?" He said, standing up and walking to the side of his bed.

"Yes- Please." He grunted his response. John called in a nurse to unlock the box containing the morphine controls and pressed the up arrow. Sherlock relaxed, letting the soothing effects of the drug take control.

"Better?" John said, closing the box and resting his hands on the railing.

"Yes, thanks." He whispered."How long have you been waiting?"

"About 6 hours, they said you weren't going to be waking up anytime soon. So I just slept in the chair." John turned and pointed towards the small cushioned chair in the corner of the room.

"Hm... Where's Mycroft?" He asked abruptly.

"Oh, he's-" just then Mycroft stepped through the door, swinging his umbrella and stood at the end of the bed.

"Welcome back, brother mine." He said, resting his hand on the end of the bed. "Did you sleep well?" He then shifted to sit on the cushioned chair John had been sleeping in.

"Fine. Have you been searching for the wretched bastard that stabbed me?" He asked, Mycroft chuckled a little before continuing.

"Yes, actually he's sitting in an isolation room right now. You can take care of him when you're a bit better." He got up then, and made his way before stopping.

"I have to go, I have some business to take care of. John, if he starts causing a fuss about leaving call me and I'll take care of it." With that he left, making sure to close the door behind him. Sherlock's eyelids began to droop with exhaustion and his head fell back and rested on his pillow slowly. He was out the second his head hit the pillow.

 **Two hours later**

John had made his way down to the cafeteria to grab some food before making his way back upstairs to Sherlock's room. He walked in to Sherlock arguing with one of the nurses, when he had left 10 minutes ago, he was still sound asleep. Obviously he had gotten some of his energy back if he was already trying to get sent home by deducing this poor girls deepest secrets.

"Sherlock, calm down. There's no need to yell at this poor women for doing her job!" He stepped in, trying to reason with him. The young nurse's face was red, and if it were possible steam would be shooting out of her ears. "I'm sorry for his behavior, I'll take it from here." He turned to her and said, she walked out, closing the door behind her none to quietly.

"What the bloody hell is your problem!" John blurted out.

"I want out of here, I hate hospitals, John you know this. And don't go calling Mycroft, my brother will set guards outside those doors for the next week." He crossed his arms and put his _I'm Sherlock Holmes and I always get my way by deduction_ face.

"Well if you're really this bored, maybe I could get Lestrade to bring in a new case for you to work on or something."

"I'd rather be at our flat solving this case or chasing criminals again. Can't you get me discharged early? You're a doctor, you understand their medical jibber jabber! you can convince them to let me out early, can't you." He crossed his arms.

"Well-" _Yeah, I guess. He's so bored, having him sitting here isn't just going to be miserable for him, it's going to be miserable for everyone._ "Fine. But anything I tell you to do, medically, you must follow. Understand?"

He rolled his eyes "Fine."


	3. Colombe Rouge

Chapter 3

Colombe Rouge

By the end of the day Sherlock was sitting comfortably on the couch in their flat, a new case in his lap and a warm cup of tea sitting on the coffee table right in front of him. John had called in sick to work that day just so he could hold up his side of the deal to keep an eye on Sherlock.

"Well?" John said as he stood in front of the couch, where Sherlock Now sat.

"Well what John." He did that _thing_ where he says a question as a statement, making John question whether he should start a conversation.

"Well, are you going to take the case, or not? It didn't seem that interesting, usually you're throwing this kind of case in Lestrade's face if he even mentions you taking it." John sat in his chair facing away from the kitchen, his legs crossed and a cup of warm tea in his hand.

There was a mumble from the other side of the room.

"What was that?" John said, not able to hear what is answer was.

"I said yes, John. I'm going to take it." Sherlock flipped his robe up and turned towards the wall, lying on his side. He was obviously favoring it, due to the "incident" later that week.

"...Is there any particular reason?" John questioned.

Sherlock made a loud huff and sat back up, his head in his hands.

"What is it like being this _stupid?"_ He said.

John was dumbfounded, _stupid?_ "Well, I'm obviously missing something, so do you mind explaining?" John sat back in his chair waiting for an explanation.

"Do you remember the case I was working on, before the-" He flitted his hand in the air making a motion to wave off the next part "-'incident' as you like to call it?"

"Yes?" Drawing out the word.

"It was a case of a man who had been in prison the past 10 years. This man was accused of murdering a man, but framing it as a suicide. I know what you're thinking-" He put his hands up by his head in some sort of awkward gesture. "'Why, Sherlock, would you be interested in a guy framing a murder as a suicide? That happens all the time'" He dropped his hands. "Now, here's when your tiny little brain will get confused. The same thing happened while this man was in prison. A 'suicide' occurred, the detectives got on the scene and 'poof' it's a murder, not a suicide. This man is in prison and yet his fingerprints were still on the scene of the crime." At this time Sherlock stood up and faced the window, his hands under his chin. He stood fairly close to the window, so the light bathed his face in a beautiful bright sheet of pale skin. Then he took a deep breath and sat down on the couch again.

"You alright?" John asked, as Sherlock sat down and closed his eyes again.

He took a deep breath and said "Yes, fine John. Get dressed we're going out."

As Sherlock went to get dressed, John cleaned up the now cold tea on the coffee table and walked into the kitchen, then walked out into the staircase to ask Ms. Hudson if she needed anything while they were out. As he took the first step out the door and towards the steps, he stopped.

Shock had overcome his body as he stood at the top of the stairs, staring down at a wordwritten in fresh dripping blood.

 _Colombe Rouge_

 **Here's the next chapter! It's a little short, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless! Please don't forget to review!**


	4. The Red Dove

Chapter 4

The Red Dove

"Sherlock?" yelled up the stairs.

Lestrade, Anderson and a few other officers from the Yard had been on the scene in less than 15 minutes. Sherlock had been sitting in his chair, and staring out the window, and occasionally pacing back and forth in the living room during that entire time, but as John Watson walked up the stairs, the fear and bewilderment leaving his body slowly, Sherlock lay on the couch with his hands forming a steeple below his chin.

"Sherlock, honestly you can't sit here the rest of the day. Let's go get some take out or something. You'll have plenty of time to scavenge around in your mind palace later." John said, standing by the coffee table. Sherlock took a deep breath and opened his eyes.

"Fine." He said with finality.

 _Why was that so easy?_ John thought to himself. Ensuring himself it was a pure stroke of luck, they made their way out of the flat.

- _Colombe Rouge-_

It was windy outside, but not the uncomfortable windy, they had decided to walk part of the way to the restaurant, knowing subconsciously they both need some fresh air. The day had been a bit crazy, and with the case developing John and Sherlock both knew their week was about to get really long.

After a while of silence, John's curiosity got the better of him and he asked "Does this have anything to do with that murderer you were talking about earlier?"

Sherlock took a few minutes to contemplate what he knew before answering, "I'm not sure yet. They don't appear to have any relation. I've done some research on what Colombe Rouge means but didn't find much. And almost didn't find anything at all." He said, shoving his hands in his trademark grey jacket.

"So what does it mean?" John said after a few seconds.

"Red dove-In Christian Religion the Dove is seen as the symbol for the Holy spirit, or Holy ghost. But there are different colored pigeons that have different meanings. There's the Speckled Dove, which symbolizes the diversity of the twelve prophets, the White Dove, a symbol of innocence, gentleness, and peace," he paused a second again, "and the red dove, which symbolizes how Christ redeemed man with his blood." He took a deep breath, and pressed his gloved and pocketed hand against his side, as if to relieve some unseen pain.

John ignored it for the time being, knowing that if he confronted Sherlock, he would just make a fuss about John being a "fussy mummy."

"Are we going to find out about that Magician Murderer?" John paused, a sheepish grin appearing across his face, "Ha! I'll make that the name of my blog article."

"Oh god John, please shut up about your blog." He said, a hint of a smile curling his lips.

After getting their take out, they hitched a ride back to their flat, where a few officers still lurked, they had only been gone about an hour and a half, but now it was time to get to work.

While John made tea Sherlock sat at the desk on John's laptop, looking up anything he could about he "Magic Murderer" or more commonly known as Jonathon Leary, and Irishman from Ashbourne, Ireland. Looking through the case file of the previous murder, a broader explanation of what occurred in that family of four's home. The notes were as included -

 **Reporting Officer:** Emmet Dowed

 **Date:** August 16, 2016

 **Crime:** Murder

 **Victim(s):** Stephan Pearling

 **Witness(es):** N/A

 **Suspect(s):**

Abraham Evans: 32 years old. Step-brother with proper motive, found stealing money from private safe in Pearling House in 2012, also charged with breaking and entering. Pearling pressed charges, sending Evans to prison for 2 years. Apparent pre-existing disagreement between Mr. Pearling and Mr. Evans upon individual interviews.

Jonathan Leary: 39 years old. No relation between suspect and victim. Jonathan Leary is a member of a well hidden religious cult called "The Risen." Common interpretations know them to be commonly neutral, although several members of the cult have been tagged as suspects in several different murder cases, but none have been convicted. Similarities between those cases and the Pearling case have caused Leary to be tagged as a suspect. The same knife was used in two of the cases, both taken from the scene of the crime and both victims murdered with it. Although two separate knives, the brand and type were exactly the same. Further notes to be added.

 **Murder Weapon(s):** Butcher's Knife

 **Notes:**

On the scene of the crime, a murder weapon was found stashed underneath the mattress of the victims bed. Victim is 28 year old male. Apparent healthy life and relations with family. Victim stabbed in back, right side. Apparent drainage of blood from bo-

"Sherlock?" John waved his hand in front of his friends face. "Your tea is ready." Setting the cup down on the desk.

Something was nagging at the back of Sherlock's mind, _something._ But he couldn't put his finger on it. Entering his mind palace quickly, Sherlock ignored John's jabbering.

 _Colombe Rouge - Red dove_

 _Body drained of all blood_

 _The Risen - cult: not well known_

 _Fingerprints on scene, but owner already in prison_

With a groan of anger Sherlock smashed his fists into the desk, standing up with haste. "I'm missing something John!" He yelled placing his hands on his head and spinning in a 180 towards the window. "But what is it." He said through clenched teeth.

 **I hope you all enjoy this part as much as you did the other three parts. Everything's starting to click, but what's the last piece? There should probably be about 2-3 more chapters after this one so I hope you guys are enjoying this story! Please review!**


	5. Missing Digits

Chapter 5

Missing Digits

 _Sherlock - Meet me at the Belmarsh prison in Thames_

 _mead._

 _John - Now? I'm at the grocery store_

 _Sherlock - Yes now! You expect another murder to wait till after you're done buying milk?_

5 Minutes Later

 _Sherlock - Hurry or I'll shatter your grandmother's tea cup._

An evil smile crept onto Sherlock's face, John really did need to hurry, though, if they wanted to catch visiting times with Mr. Leary.

10 Minutes later a taxi pulled up containing none other than Dr. John Watson.

"Finally, I believe a snail could have raced you here and won." Sherlock said, pulling up the collar of his jacket.

"Well, if you had called me and said something like (in his squeaky Sherlock impression) 'Sherlock do you mind meeting me at Belmarsh prison so I can hound a suspect about his secret life of sacrificing families to god?' Maybe, _maybe,_ I would have had the taxi drive a little faster." Sherlock laughed a little at that. They walked through the prison making their way to the visiting area. Where Jonathan Leary sat, his hands resting in his lap. He had an evil grin on his face.

"Jonathon Leary, I presume? I'm Dr. John Watson, and this is Sherlock Holmes-" Sherlock interrupted John,

"Consulting Detective." He said.

John cleared his throat, "Right, we're here to talk to you about Stephen Pearling."

Once again Sherlock interrupted John. "Why'd you kill him?" He asked looking Leary straight in the eye.

"I wanted to have some fun." Leary said, the grin still plastered on his face.

"No...No I don't think that's it. Do you know who this is?" Sherlock placed a picture of a man in his late 40's on the table, a small beard on his weathered face.

Jonathon tensed at seeing the picture, and cleared his throat before answering, "I have no idea who that is." He said.

"We know you're a member of a cult, The Risen is it? Don't play dumb with me. Where are the letters?" Sherlock asked.

"What letters? What are you talking about?"

"The small fresh cuts on your arm, the black pen mark on your shirt, it's so simple it's stupid now you're going to tell me where the letters are and who their addressed to."

At that moment John tugged Sherlock to turn around, "What's happening right now? Please explain." He asked.

"Oh god John I feel so sorry for you, it's so simple.

John got impatient, "Sherlock, just tell me."

"The cuts on his arm are for the safeguard members of the Cult use, a symbol written in the authors blood. As well as the pen mark on his shirt showed that he'd been writing letters. If he tells us who he sent those letters to then this case will be as good as solved, John."

He turned and went back to Leary.

"What's in it for me?" He said,

"I can make sure the person who got you into this mess goes to prison for the rest of his life."

This caught Leary's attention, "His name is Adrian Post, he's the one who's making us kill these people. I didn't want to do it, but he said he'd kill my wife and daughter if I didn't."

Sherlock thought for a second, "That's an alias, what's his real name?"

Leary made a questioning face, "What-"

"I said that's a fake name, what's his real name... Tell me now please!" He shouted at him.

"Uhh..." He was thinking "I-I don't know, he never told me his real name, not to mention I didn't even know that wasn't his real name."

Sherlock suddenly was pulled away from this pressing issue as another thought struck his mind. "Let me see your right hand... NOW please."

Jonathon pulled his arm out from under the table, where Sherlock realized that there was no way Leary could have been at the crime scene, but his right hand could have been. Jonathon Leary was missing his right hand.

"How did I miss this?" Sherlock breathed, "If we find whoever has Jonathon Leary's right hand, we'll know who the killer is." Sherlock turned, his coat flapping with the motion and began walking out of the room, "Come on John, we've got an Adrian Post to find!"

 **So it's been a millennium since I've written the previous chapter of this story, many people have been asking me to continue this story and here it is! Sorry, I'm planning on finishing this story, I'm currently more active on , so I'm going to get this story set up over there so it's more of a priority when I'm writing. I hope you enjoy this next chapter and am extremely sorry for the long wait! I have another Sherlock fanfiction on my page if you'd like to check it out:**

 **u/6424643/DrWhohouselock221b**

 **Thank you so much for your support on this story!**


	6. Redemption

Chapter 6

Redemption

Finding Jonathon Leary's right hand was no longer relevant. He mentioned he had the address he had marked the letters with. The letters sat in Sherlock's jacket pocket. Of course he hadn't contacted Lestrade, he would have said to wait and let them take care of the rest of this case, yelled at him a bit for going off on his own. Now, he and John were in a taxi riding to Adrian Post's suspected meeting place. According to the letters, there was an old apartment owned by an Adrian Post, but he had long been deceased, and the flat had been given through rights to a son, who had let it rot, not wanting anything to do with it. Now they knew this Cult Leader's name was just an alias, the flat, Leary told them, was meant only as a meeting place for the members to pick up the letters. But, they were going to check anyways, anything could be hiding in this place. The door was musty and rotten, and as they stepped into the building, the floorboards creaked. There were markings on the walls, written in what Sherlock only guessed was blood, there was a specific wall with names written backwards on it. Hundreds of names, all written in blood. As Sherlock read, John gaping at the walls, he noticed a familiar name, Stephan Pearling.

"These are the victims." Sherlock whispered. These are all the people they had killed. Families, fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters... the list went on. As Sherlock sat reading some of the other names, he heard a floorboard creak down the hall. John and Sherlock both stopped and stared.

"Who's there?" Sherlock said sternly.

"You know me, Mr. Holmes." A man stepped out from behind one of the doors. "It's me, Adrian." He gave a devilish smile.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked.

"Just came to admire the people we've saved. I don't come here often, the man who owned this place was interestingly weird, delving in sorcery and magic and the like. Quite the nut case if you ask me." How Ironic.

"How about we introduce ourselves with our real names?" Sherlock asked, then.

"Oh you'd like that wouldn't you? This case you've gotten yourself wrangled up in has your mind twisting in its sleep trying to solve it. Now if only you knew my name. Why don't we step into the study? It's quite cozy, I'm sure you'll find it quite pleasant." The smile never left his face. John's mental alarm was going off, he grabbed the sleeve of Sherlock's coat. Giving him a warning stare. But then he let go, and followed Sherlock closely down the hall. His pistol in his hands.

The door to the room was covered in locks and chains. There was no way in without a key, unless you tore the walls down. They stepped quietly into the large room, there were giant bookshelves that stretched from the ground, to the tall ceiling on either side of the room. They had long since been cleared of the knowledge that once sat on them, now there were trinkets and small paintings with symbols on them that sat on each shelf. The trinkets, Sherlock guessed, were parts of their rituals, little dolls and bottle filled with different liquids. In the center of the room was a desk, and "Adrian" sat at it, his hands resting on the desk. Sherlock stepped farther into the room, his shoe felt as if a sticky liquid was tugging on it. On the ground was a giant circle, and other shapes within it, it was written in blood, just like everything else this cult does.

"Oh sorry about that. We sacrificed an older woman today, sad really, she was quite nice. Invited me in for a cup of tea." His voice changed pitch, "Bad choice."

"Who. Are. You." Sherlock asked sternly.

"Well, my dear Sherlock, I'm commonly known as The Hawk." There was a knife in his hands, he was twirling it. He pointed lazily to either one of the bookshelves.

"This is what we do here, in The Risen. We are the blood disciples of the Lord, the saviors of your people. These sacrifices aren't random, meaningless, we choose each person carefully, those who have committed great sins, in order to redeem them we must take the proper precautions, we stage them as murders in their own homes. I'm sure you've noticed the 'victims,' as I'm sure you're calling them, have all been drained of their blood. Would you like to know why?"

Sherlock stayed silent.

"It's because the blood is what cleanses _us_ of _our_ sins. Bathing in the blood of the redeemed keep sour bodies pure, so that we may continue to be noble disciples."

He went quiet for a minute. John was breathing nervously behind Sherlock, waiting for the next move.

"Sherlock, John... It's time for your redemption." As he said the last word, several cloaked figures, wearing dark red hoods that shrouded their faces in shadows stepped behind them. The clothing they wore underneath were dark robes, crosses hung around each of their necks. Two pairs of hands grabbed them both by the arms, leading them down a set of stairs, probably leading into the basement.

John was struggling to break free of the grasps, his breathing becoming restricted as one of them grabbed him by the throat and pushed him into the wall. He slumped against the wall as blood trickled down from his temple.

"Hey!" Sherlock yelled, breaking a hand free and managing to punch one of them in the face. He was on the ground in an instant, hands were all over him pulling him across the ground into the center of a giant blood symbol. They tied his hands and feet to the ground where they rest, restraints cemented into the ground. Sherlock was disoriented, his mind working slowly.

He tugged at the restraints. All of the members circled around him, holding their necklaces, chanting in unison a foreign tongue.

Then Adrian appeared, "It's not customary to cause our victim's harm, but, Sherlock, I believe you deserve it. You see, my brother was put in jail 17 years ago for killing a woman. You were assigned to the woman's case to find the murderer, and you arrested my kid brother. He died in prison two days ago, did you know that? No, of course you didn't." Adrian's voice was becoming shaky, "He was stabbed 9 times by a fellow inmate, because he was thought to have stolen the man's socks." He laughed, "Two injustices in one lifetime, I will get his justice for him, Sherlock." He waved his hand, and a dagger, carved out of human bone was placed in his hand.

"You deserve this pain, Sherlock. You deserve every second of it." With that, Sherlock's shirt was cut open and Adrian began carving symbols into his pale flesh.

Sherlock yelled and writhed, trying to get away from the knife. He gasped for oxygen, but he was only gifted with short bursts. Blood was covering his clothes now, his chest was dripping with it.

From the corner of the room, John was yelling, struggling with all his strength to get to his dying friend.

Adrian's devilish smile hung over Sherlock's face, "Good night, Mr. Holmes." And with that, the dagger was pressed to Sherlock's side, he stabbed him agonizingly slow. Causing a coarse scream to break free from his chest. He gasped for air, the pain encompassing his whole body. And then it was slowing, the pain was leaving him. His eyes began to close, John was still yelling from the corner of the room. There was banging and shouts from the doorway as someone, or a bunch of someone's came running into the room. But it was too late, he was choking on his own blood, his last thought, _I don't want to die._

Author's Note:

YES! I am still alive! I'm so terribly sorry for making everyone wait so long. Unfortunately, I'm sure I've lost most of this stories following, but if you're still here! Thank you! I absolutely intend to finish this story by the end of the year. So don't fret, I believe I'll do one more chapter, and then... this story will be complete. Thank you again for the support, and I hope you enjoyed this chapter... sorry for the angst... and the h/c... and all the blood, I mean we're dealing with a cult here people. Don't forget to review, and thanks again for reading!


	7. A Short Walk Home

"Police! Put your hands up!" Lestrade and a few other police barged into the room.

The men standing around Sherlock on the ground stood up with surprise. They were surrounded. Lestrade caught a glimpse of Sherlock's blood on the floor and called in an ambulance urgently. John's arms were released as the grasping hands let go in surprise, he rushed to the man on the ground.

"Sherlock, Sherlock look at me, stay awake alright?" John had taken his coat off and was pressing it firmly to the open wound, but even if the blood stopped, Sherlock would asphyxiated on his own blood. Suddenly, a hand came up to rest on John's neck, a light, gentle touch. But no words followed as breath was slipping through the dying man's hands.

"Where are those bloody paramedics, damnit!" John yelled.

Two seconds later, they rushed in, they pushed John away gently, but he didn't notice because all he could do was stare at his hands, covered in Sherlock's blood and realized that he might not make it out of this one.

* * *

They were frantically trying to keep him alive in the back of the ambulance, they knew that if his heart stopped beating there would be no blood left to start it back up. It was chaos. They were rushing into the ER, doctors surrounding the gurney, rushing him to the operating room as quickly as possible. This is the hardest time, the time in between knowing your friend is dying and knowing people are trying to keep him from leaving this world too soon, and that maybe it is his time and there is nothing they can do. In the movies, this is when the heart broken family, friends, spouses sit in the hard plastic chairs in the waiting room, waiting for news, waiting to hear whether or not the person they've waited on has made it or not. But this wasn't a movie, and John wasn't heartbroken because he knew Sherlock was too stubborn and too strong to die like this.

"I'm scrubbing in." John said suddenly, before they left with the gurney. The attending stopped quickly as he saw the gurney being pushed down the hallway.

"Dr. Watson that isn't wise, it's always harder treating someone you know." He said.

"I said. I'm scrubbing in." And with that John followed the attending to the OR and was gowned up.

"Alright, here we go." He was only assisting, he had to be in that room. He wouldn't let anyone open Sherlock up without him being there to see every little incision, every droplet of blood that was whisked away, because that would mean that Sherlock was dying with no one he knew around him.

* * *

It took 6 hours, 14 minutes and 27 seconds. John was at Sherlock's side for every minute of it. By the end of it, John's eyes were red and bloodshot, his hands were tired, but it was worth it. Because every time something happened, John was there to be the first to know it. He sat in the ICU in a small cushioned chair pulled up to the side of the bed. He sat there quietly, soon dozing off into a much needed slumber. It was only after he felt the tug of his shirt sleeve that he woke up.

"Welcome back." He croaked to Sherlock.

"I didn't want to die. I got my wish." He whispered back. "I couldn't break my best friends heart twice in one lifetime, not again. Not ever again." Sherlock closed his eyes for a second.

"When can we go home?" He said after a short pause.

John could only laugh. "It's only a short walk, Sherlock… Should we make a break for it?" He asked.

"Definitely." Sherlock answered.


End file.
